


Empathy

by allfinehere



Category: Sherlock (TV), X-Men
Genre: M/M, X-Men AU - Freeform, X-Men Crossover
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-22
Updated: 2012-12-21
Packaged: 2017-11-21 23:34:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/603291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allfinehere/pseuds/allfinehere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>X-Men AU: John comes back from war to find his powers are quickly growing out of his control, and he ends up at the London Institute for the Gifted. Adventures ensue!</p><p>Clearly I am really terrible at writing summaries. This was written for a Sherlock Secret Santa on Tumblr for Tumblr user fictionfacesreality. I honestly have no idea where I'm going with this or how long it'll end up being, but I'm having fun!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Empathy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fictionfacesreality](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=fictionfacesreality).



It was no longer taboo to be a mutant. There were still individuals and small groups who feared mutants and did their best to make their hatred known, but for the most part mutants had been accepted and were treated like any other person. Schools modeled after Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters began popping up all over the globe. Some cities even had a mutant population large enough to necessitate two schools. Most were multi-age, but occasionally the schools were separated into children and adults.

London had two such schools, the London Academy for Gifted Youngsters and the London Institute for the Gifted. The former was for children, named ‘academy’ so that hesitant parents would feel their children were getting a good education and having as normal a life as possible, which they were. The latter was called an ‘institute’ in order to provide a place adult mutants could learn about their powers that didn’t feel like university or a children’s school. Both were equipped with housing and ran year round to provide as much support as possible. Some powers were relatively harmless, but there were many mutants that required daily training to prevent them from accidentally hurting themselves or someone else.

John Watson was one of the former.

Like most mutants, his powers had emerged around puberty and he had been rather disappointed by them. His older sister Harry had developed superhuman senses and speed. John always thought she’d acted a bit like an animal as a kid, and decided the powers suited her. It wasn’t certain that he’d get powers as well, but since his father and sister were mutants, it was likely.

It had happened when he was twelve. While he was in school he became increasingly aware that he knew how his classmates were feeling without their verbal input. As he walked through the hall he was bombarded with a full spectrum of emotions, from scared to excited to nervous to happy in rapid fire succession. It scared him and he ran, knocking kids over without really noticing, focused only on getting out. They found him alone on the swings in the yard with his hands over his ears, as if he could shut it out by not listening. John’s parents transferred him to the London Academy for Gifted Youngsters, where he learned to put up shields and block out everyone’s emotive output. At first kids didn’t like him because he tended to innocently approach them and ask things like why they were upset or what was making them so happy. He quickly learned that they felt like it was an invasion of their privacy, and stopped.

He liked school, and thanks to the instructors there he was able to go to medical school to become a doctor without fear of his powers interfering with his work. He graduated, obtained a job and began to live a relatively normal adult life. However, normal didn’t suit him. It was terribly dull, so he joined the army.

That was where his problems really began.

Everything was going as well as could be expected for a war until he was shot, which wasn’t even the worst part. He was invalided out of the army and sent home with an actual wound in his shoulder and an imaginary one in his leg, both of which pained him. He was forced to use a cane to move around, and he hated it so much that he spent much of his time in his room just to avoid having to use it. When he came back from the war, he had felt terribly lost and unfocused. He’d rented a tiny flat for a while, but it was miserable and lonely. While speaking to Harry one day, she’d reminded him that he did have another option: the London Institute for the Gifted. Feeling like that was giving up, John stubbornly refused to even consider it. That is, until things were out of his control.

They’d started as whispers of emotions, just random impressions here and there and John shrugged it off, thinking he might need to practice reinforcing his shields in his down time so that he didn’t have to consciously think about it while he was out. The problem quickly escalated until John had no ability to shut out people’s feelings at all. Either his shields had failed or his receptive ability had multiplied considerably. He took to keeping to his flat, making a trip to the supermarket for necessities only once a week. On one such trip a young man stormed by John, bumping into him on his way out the store. Suddenly John didn’t just know the man was angry; John felt angry. The stranger’s anger had become his own. Other people jostled by him as he stood still in shock, and he felt elated, depressed, anxious, exhausted, and a myriad of other things all at once. It overwhelmed him, and he stumbled as his vision faded to black.

John woke up in an unfamiliar place and panicked for a moment until he realized that he was blessedly void of other people’s emotions. Sighing, he laid back down on the cot and let his gaze wander around the room. It was sparse, containing only the cot, a small bedside table, a chair, and the monitor to which John was attached. It blinked steadily, an affirmation that he was physically all right. Instinctively he looked for a chart at the end of the bed, but there wasn’t one. This didn’t look like any hospital he’d ever seen. There was nothing on the pale mint green walls to indicate what sort of establishment this was, either. John began to get to his feet to see what was beyond his door when it opened. He flinched, expecting an onslaught of feelings. However, the space remained calm and John was unaffected as a woman with long brown hair woven into a braid walked in, carrying his chart and immediately assessing both him and the monitor.    
“Hi, I’m Molly,” she greeted him. “Glad to see you’re awake,” she smiled. “You’ve been out, oh, going on sixteen hours now,” she informed him.

John stared at her in surprise. “Well, good thing no one’s waiting on me, then,” he said wryly, not meaning it to sound like a pitiable statement. “I’m John. Where am I?” he questioned, still glancing around the room as if the answer might appear.

“You’re in the medical wing of the London Institute for the Gifted,” she replied. “One of our members happened to be in the same shop as you when you passed out. Thankfully for you, he knew what you were and brought you here instead of leaving you for the hospital. You wouldn’t have done well in there.”

John snorted. “I should say not. What the hell happened?” he asked, then realized he was probably the only person who knew. Judging by the look on her face, she was about to point out the same thing. “Sorry,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck and wincing at the memory. “I’m an empath. I can tell what people are feeling. But in the shop...I started, um, I started feeling what they were feeling instead of just identifying. It was...there were so many of them. It was too much,” he said quietly. The woman nodded and made notes on her chart. As John thought about his current situation, a question came to mind. “Hold on. If you didn’t know what my powers were, then how are you keeping me from feeling your - or anyone else’s - emotions?”

The woman smiled at the quizzical look on John’s face. “One of our members offered to dampen your powers for you. The same one who found you, actually. But if you object to it he’ll stop.”

John thought this over. On the one hand, he didn’t like it that someone had a sort of control over him. On the other hand, it was a massive relief. “No, it’s all right. It’s good,” he assured her. “But - I thought you said he also knew I was a mutant. Does he have several abilities?” John asked curiously.

“No,” she smiled, “he has the ability to dampen or enhance powers. The rest of it...well, he’s just very observant.”

John nodded, but grew uneasy as a question formed in his mind. “So this mystery person who’s, um, dampening my powers, when he leaves will the same thing happen again?” he asked, though he suspected Molly didn’t know. He didn’t even know, and they were his own powers.

Shaking her head, Molly smiled at him a bit sadly. “I’m sorry, I don’t know. I’m just volunteering here. I actually work mostly with dead people. It’s kind of fun, really - well, I mean, not fun, but...” she stammered, then started over. “I can find out how they died. That’s my power,” she explained, cheeks rosy pink.

“Well if I ever die mysteriously, I hope they come to you to figure out how it happened,” John replied with a gentle smile.

Molly nodded, smiling gratefully at John’s kindness. She was often teased about her awkward manner of speech and topics of conversations. “Well,” she began, changing the subject, “He’s actually right outside if you’d like to talk to him. He might have some idea how to help you. Though,” she added hesitantly in a slightly lowered voice, “I should warn you he’s a bit...erm, eccentric. And very blatant. He doesn’t care what people think of him, but all the same he’s a bit of a showoff with his observations.”

Very curious about what sort of man his mystery rescuer was, John replied, “Yeah, I’d like to meet him if that’s all right. If only to say thanks.”

“All right, I’ll let him know. It was nice to meet you, John,” Molly smiled, and then she was gone from the room.

No sooner had she left than a tall, then figure with a mop of dark curls and striking eyes strode into the room, carrying himself as if he owned the place. For all John knew, he did. “Afghanistan or Iraq?” he asked in a sharp baritone.

John was taken aback. “Um, excuse me?” he asked. “How did you-”

The man cut him off. “Obvious. You’ve got a tan, but it stops at your wrists. Not a holiday, then. Your haircut, the set of your jaw, and the way you carry yourself all say ‘military man.’ The items you’d begun to gather at the supermarket suggest simplicity as well as the fact you’re probably on a budget. Gunshot wound to the shoulder, psychosomatic limp in the leg. So: Afghanistan or Iraq?”

The man’s explanation was rapid-fire and John felt like he had to work to keep up. With a slightly stunned look on his face, he replied, “Afghanistan. That...was amazing,” he added simply.

The stranger glanced sharply at him. “Interesting. That’s not what people usually say.”

“What do they say?”

He smirked. “Piss off.”

And for the first time since this whole mess began, John laughed. “I’m John. Though I’m sure you managed to figure that out already, along with what I ate for breakfast and what exactly my mutation is,” he grinned.

The tall man gave John a scrutinizing glance, then said, “Sherlock Holmes. You didn’t eat breakfast, and you’re an empath. Your abilities didn’t cause you any trouble until recently, and what happened last night is a new development. Usually you’re able to identify emotions in others, but that wouldn’t be cause to pass out. No, last night the real trouble didn’t start until they came into contact with you.” He narrowed his eyes, studying John. “You can feel others’ emotions now, and you don’t know how to stop it.”

John stared at him in amazement. “Brilliant. That’s exactly right.”

Sherlock snorted. “Of course it is. I’m never wrong. The question is: what started all this?”

Fairly certain Sherlock already knew the answer, John appreciated being able to explain for himself. “After I was shot and shipped back home, I couldn’t shut people out anymore. Either my shields aren’t as good, or my receptive abilities are growing. Considering what happened last night, I’d guess the second one,” John shrugged. “Listen,” he added quickly before Sherlock could embark on another deductive narrative, “I just wanted to thank you for helping me last night. I imagine waking up in a hospital would have been bloody awful. And thank you for...you know, what you’re doing now. It’s a relief,” he admitted.

Sherlock dismissed his thanks with an absent wave of his hand. “Not a problem. I was bored, and you are interesting. I like puzzles.”

John hesitated, then spoke. “So, when you leave, I’ll go back to...to whatever’s going on with my powers, yeah?’

“Presumably,” Sherlock replied as he inspected the monitor showing blinking proof that John was alive. “You’re going to have to regain control at some point. However, if you’d be more comfortable with my assistance, I have been looking for a flatmate.”

“But we barely know each other,” John said incredulously. “And I don’t think it’d be wise for me to leave this institute just yet.”

“I’ve a fair idea of what you’re like,” Sherlock stated. “As for me, I sometimes talk for days on end and sometimes not at all. I like to run experiments, and I often play violin at three in the morning.” Noticing the confused look on John’s face, he added, “Flatmates should know the worst about each other. There are flats in the institute, so you won’t need to worry about leaving just yet.”

John was silent for a moment, then nodded. “All right then, but you should know that I often yell in my sleep and am not actually awake until after my first cup of tea.”

“Nightmares induced by post traumatic stress disorder. Well, I don’t sleep much anyway.” He smiled at John. “Would you like to see the flat?”

Unhooking himself from the monitor, which started a frantic beeping until Sherlock turned it off, John grinned and stood up. “Let’s go.”

-6 months later-

Sherlock glanced down at his mobile. “Lestrade’s got another one,” he announced, quickening his pace.

John sighed and hurried to catch up. “You know that ninety percent of the time they’ve done something harmless and we don’t have to appear right away in order to keep the city from burning to the ground, right?”

“We’re not taking that chance. Remember what happened at the Portobello Market?”

“Yeah, yeah, all right,” John grumbled. They’d taken a detour on their way to pick up a mutant on Portobello Street and during the delay, she accidentally destroyed two stands with an overflow of kinetic energy. Lestrade had not been happy with them that day.

Despite his complaints, John was actually quite happy. Over the past six months, he and Sherlock had grown nearly inseparable. At first it had been out of necessity as John was still working on rebuilding his shields and shoring up his defenses, and Sherlock was keeping him from being overwhelmed. In the beginning, John had asked many times why Sherlock was doing this for him, and Sherlock had merely replied that he found John interesting. After about a month of that, John gave up trying to figure it out and just accepted the fact that he might never really find out.

Lestrade, who could sense when mutants were using their powers and and approximate where they were, noticed how well John got on with Sherlock. It was the first time he’d seen anyone repeatedly interact with Sherlock of their own free will, much less enjoy it, and realized that with their combined powers he could put them to good use. When Lestrade located distressed mutants, he sent Sherlock and John after them. Sherlock was able to suppress the person’s powers to keep them from harming themselves or anyone else, and John dealt with them on an emotional level, talking them down and calming them. At first, John just used his powers to evaluate their state and empathize with them, but as the months went by his powers continued to develop and he gained the ability to transfer emotion to another person. It only worked when John felt the emotion himself, so he had to calm himself down before he could calm a distressed mutant, which was often difficult since running through the streets of London left him with an adrenaline high. Still, even that was better than the fear and panic that radiated off most of their targets.

A few weeks into their new ‘job,’ Sherlock and John had been attacked by a small anti-mutant gang. One particularly large man pulled a knife and wrestled Sherlock into a headlock, threatening to slit his throat. To prove his point, he traced the knife along Sherlock’s pale skin, leaving a trail of bright red behind.

So John shot him dead where he stood, and the rest of the gang took off for fear they’d be shot as well.

John ran to Sherlock’s side, where he was in a heap on the ground having been brought down in the dead man’s fall. Seeing vivid splashes of blood across Sherlock’s face, John panicked but gently and efficiently checked him for injuries. The only wound was the shallow cut; the rest of the blood belonged to the thug. Hands on either side of Sherlock’s face, John breathed a sigh of relief as he rested his forehead against Sherlock’s. Their eyes met, and for a brief moment he felt a spark; something warm and lovely filling his chest. But then Sherlock coughed and it was gone, replaced with a quick removal of hands and awkward glance to the ground. They’d gone back to normal soon after that - well, as normal as they ever got, but John often thought about that small moment and if it meant anything, or if it was just a result of the adrenaline rush.

“John!” An insistent voice interrupted his thoughts. John glanced over at Sherlock, who was giving him a slightly annoyed look. “I’d appreciate it if you’d stop daydreaming about pretty girls while we’re on a case.”

John rolled his eyes, wanting to retort with ‘I was daydreaming about you, you git,’ but thought it wise to leave that unsaid. “I wasn’t daydreaming about girls,” he said instead.

Thankfully, Sherlock let it drop this time. “Well, we’re here. Approximately. Lestrade has said that he thinks they have some sort of control over organic matter, though he didn’t say whether it was plant or animal.”

“Oh, I rather think it’s plant,” John said, looking at the rose vines creeping up the trees and blooming in bursts of scarlet and sunrise pink. Tulips poked their green tips through the cold, frozen November ground and unfolded in yellow and violet.

“Really?” Sherlock asked. “How do you - oh,” he said as he turned around to see the out of season flora. “Interesting,” he murmured, looking around for the source of the flowers. He soon spotted her, a little wisp of a thing sitting against a tree in a patch of pansies. She did not appear to be unduly distressed, but as the old adage goes, appearances can be deceiving. “John,” he said quietly, nodding toward the girl.

John followed the direction of his nod, and Sherlock felt John lower his shields and noticed him wince almost imperceptibly as he opened himself to the girl’s emotions. John approached the girl with a friendly openness on his face. Sherlock stayed back to give them some space as well as not frighten her. People found him intimidating, which often worked in his favor. But not in this sort of case. He watched as John talked with her, wondering what he was saying. Whatever it was, he had a gift. He even managed to coax a small smile out of her, then he waved Sherlock over.

“Sherlock, this is Claire,” John said in a gentle voice. “Her parents are of an...outdated manner of thinking and made her leave home when they found out about her powers. I think the Academy would love to have her, though, don’t you?” John asked. “They’re in serious need of a gardener and I think you would do a lovely job,” John continued, now talking to Claire. “You have an amazing gift,” he added, giving her a warm smile. Claire smiled shyly in return. Sherlock wondered what John was projecting onto the girl. Probably love; John was very good at that one. Sherlock was slightly jealous of John’s ability to be so open about it. He knew it had little to do with John’s mutation, but rather with his character. Remembering to play his part, Sherlock nodded and smiled. “I think it’d be an excellent fit.” Sherlock always felt slightly useless on these cases where his own powers weren’t necessary, but he knew he should be glad of it since no out-of-control mutants was better for everybody.

Claire and John stood, and Claire clung to his hand as the three of them began to walk to the street to hail a cab. “Will I get to see you again, after we get to the Academy? Do you work there?” she asked. Many of the children they found asked this of John, who often became their anchor in a sea of chaos while their powers were out of control.

Squeezing her hand, John replied, “I don’t work there, but I visit fairly often so you’ll see me around. I look forward to see what you manage to do with their greenhouse and gardens. Might even drag Sherlock along too, though I’m not sure he appreciates flowers as much as I do,” he joked.

Claire brightened and replied shyly, “I’d like that.”

A few hours later, Claire was settled in at the Academy and John and Sherlock were in a cab on their way home. John was staring out the window, and he could feel Sherlock’s gaze on him as if he were trying to bore his way to John’s very soul with just his eyes. Turning, he shot Sherlock a glare. “What?” he asked, slightly irritated. He didn’t much care for it when Sherlock did this, trying to deduce things about John instead of just asking.

Sherlock must have been lost in thought, because he twitched slightly at John’s small outburst. “Oh. I was just thinking.”

John snorted. “Obviously. About what?”

Sherlock hesitated. “You’re...very good at what you do on our cases. Especially with the children.” He was quiet then, but John knew he wasn’t finished so he waited patiently for Sherlock to continue, wondering where he was going with this. “It’s not just your mutation, is it? It’s...you.”

John’s expression softened. Sherlock seemed genuinely unsure and almost vulnerable, which was a very rare occurrence. “Yeah, suppose I’ve always been this way. I was pretty empathetic even as a kid. I just happened to get a power that suited me,” he shrugged. “Why do you ask?” he questioned cautiously. However, Sherlock turned to stare out the window and he received no answer.

In fact, Sherlock didn’t speak again until they were in their flat and John was making tea. Mugs in hand, John was walking to the sitting room when Sherlock suddenly said, “My mother told me she loved me one time, when I was four and she was leaving for a month long trip to France. I was crying and I suspect she did it to stop me from embarrassing her.” Sherlock did not move from what John had taken to calling his thinking pose throughout the entire admission. His eyes remained closed and his fingers were steepled at his chin as he stretched out on the sofa that was too short for him.

Completely caught off guard John stood rooted to his spot, mugs of tea forgotten in his hands. He had no idea how to respond. Sherlock rarely talked about his childhood, and never spoke about things on such a personal, emotional level. With this new information, John realized that Sherlock probably called himself a sociopath because it was easier to pretend he was incapable of emotion than to admit he’d been starved of affection as a child. Finally mobilizing his legs after what seemed like hours but was in fact about twenty seconds, John walked over and handed Sherlock his tea, then sat down on the floor with his back against the couch. He resisted the impulse to project love on Sherlock like he did with the mutants they found who were lost and afraid. He didn’t know what Sherlock was feeling, though, and it was something John both treasured and disliked. It was nice to be able to have a relationship with someone where John didn’t feel like he could accidentally spy on them, but there were a lot of frustrating moments where John would’ve given just about anything to be able to tell what sort of mood Sherlock was in. John didn’t know why Sherlock was the only exception to his ability, and had given up questioning it long ago.

“I’m sorry,” John said quietly. “That’s bullocks. I know it’s your family and I shouldn’t speak poorly of them, but, well - it is,” he huffed, sipping at his tea.

The corners of Sherlock’s mouth twitched in the tiniest of smiles when John came to his defense. “Yes, well, that’s how the Holmes household is run,” he said wryly.

“Well no wonder Mycroft acts like he’s got his umbrella up his arse,” John said, grinning into his mug.

Sherlock laughed. “That very well may be part of it, but I rather think he was just born that way.” He sat up, and John turned to look at him. Sherlock was quiet for a moment, looking at John thoughtfully. John had long since learned that was the sort of expression Sherlock wore when he was about to embark upon an experiment, and John hoped it wasn’t going to be anything too destructive to the flat this time. He waited patiently and was entirely unsurprised when Sherlock asked, “John?”

“Mm?”

“I want you to use your projection ability on me.”

Now that did surprise John. He’d never used his powers on Sherlock - partially because he couldn’t, and partially because he wouldn’t. “I - um, I don’t know if I can, actually,” he admitted.

It was Sherlock’s turn to be surprised. “How do you mean?”

“I thought you knew,” John replied, eyebrows raised. “I’ve never been able to sense what mood you’re in. I mean, I can observe and figure it out from that like most people do, but I can’t use my powers. So I don’t know if I could project anything onto you, either. And if I could,” John continued, “it might open up some sort of link between us and then I would be able to receive emotions from you. And I don’t know if you want to give up that privacy,” he shrugged. “It’s up to you.”

Sherlock considered this for a moment. “Risks taken into account, I’d like you to try.”

“All right,” John said, setting down his now-empty mug and climbing up on the couch next to Sherlock. “What do you want?”

Sherlock looked at him oddly, then understanding dawned on his face. “Oh.” He averted his gaze for a moment, then trained it steadily on John. “Love.”

The tips of John’s ears grew pink as he flashed back to the moment after John had shot Sherlock’s attacker, when he’d wondered if there could be something more between them than friendship. But he rather doubted Sherlock had any sort of romantic intentions with this experiment. They’d been on the topic, so that’s what Sherlock chose. “Um, okay,” he said, annoyed to find his voice had gone slightly hoarse. Since it was easier to do with a physical connection, John placed his hand on Sherlock’s bare arm. Usually when John projected love, he thought of his mum, things that made him happy, and people he cared about. With the way things had been going today, he probably should have been unsurprised that his first thoughts were of Sherlock. Running around London with Sherlock, getting takeaway and forcing Sherlock to eat it, the rush of adrenaline and helpless giggles after they finished a particularly interesting case, listening to Sherlock play violin. It all filled John with a pleasant warmth and sense of belonging, and it all trickled easily over his connection with Sherlock.

Sherlock watched John carefully as he began the procedure, expecting to feel echoes of love or a sense of peace, but his eyes widened in surprise at the rush of warmth and affection and belonging that washed over him and filled him. He gasped involuntarily and stared at John in amazement and curiosity. John had always been a puzzle to him, and he had just become several layers more intricate. Sherlock marveled at how he felt, and he knew he would want this all the time. He’d been exposed to it and now he would ache for it when it was gone. He felt slightly panicky at the thought, and suddenly John’s hand was removed from his arm and the feeling of love faded, leaving warm echoes but nothing more.

John looked nauseated and worried, biting his lower lip. “You panicked,” he said guiltily. “It was too much. I’m sorry,” he said, the last in a near-whisper. “I shouldn’t have done it.”

Sherlock suddenly wanted to hold John close and tell him that it was okay and to never, ever stop, and he was surprised at himself. Was that the remnants of John’s projection? Or was it his own feelings? “No,” he said hastily. “It - it wasn’t that. I...” he sighed, finding this extremely difficult to admit. “I didn’t want you to stop, and when I thought about how this was inevitably going to come to an end, well...I panicked a bit,” he admitted, embarrassed for the first time in quite a while.

Relief washed over John’s face, which was soon muddled by confusion. “But...I don’t understand,” he began. “The projection should have been a sort of...booster, a catalyst to what was already there. There should be no reason for you to feel nervous when it’s gone. It builds on what’s already there,” he explained. “Otherwise it wouldn’t have been so easy,” he said, mostly to himself.

“You’ve done nothing wrong, John,” Sherlock reassured him, knowing John tended to get himself worked up when he thought he’d made a mistake. “I need to go think about this, examine the results and such,” he trailed off, already headed to his room.

John watched him go, worrying despite Sherlock’s reassurances. It seemed he had some thinking to do as well.

**Author's Note:**

> I am Tumblr user allfinehere, where I will probably post previews and updates, as well as answer any questions if anyone happens to have any. Thanks for reading!


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